Kyra rode across the countryside of Escalon, Andor thundering beneath her, Leo at her heels, the three of them cutting through the brush, breaking branches, rustling leaves, winding in and out of forest trails as they had been for hours. Ever since leaving Alva’s side, Kyra felt a new sense of determination, of purpose, as she headed for her mother’s original home, the source of her power, the place where all was supposed to be revealed.
The Lost Temple.
Her mind raced as she imagined it, each step increasing her sense of anticipation. It was there, Alva promised, that Kyra would find the clues she needed to lead her to her mother, and to find her own source of power. Kyra’s heart pounded in anticipation. All her life she had wondered about her mother; she had wanted nothing more than to meet her, to hear her voice, to embrace her, to see if she was like her. She wanted so desperately to know if her mother was proud of her, to hear it in her mother’s own words. That would make all of it, all these years of not knowing her, of not being raised by her, worth it.
Even more, Kyra longed to know where she had come from, who her real people were, who she was herself. Alva’s words echoed in her mind. The ancient ones. The original people. Protectors of Escalon. Those who kept the dragons at bay. Kyra was proud to hail from such a lineage, and yet she wondered what it meant. It was a different race he was speaking of. A race of immortals, of all-powerful beings. How had they disappeared? Who had vanquished them? Had they truly disappeared at all?
Kyra sensed her mother was not entirely human, was more powerful than all the human race, yet she did not know how long ago she had lived, how much of that power had filtered down to her. Did she carry the same power her mother had? Or was Kyra of a mixed race? Was her mother immortal? Did that mean that Kyra was immortal, too?
Kyra rode and rode, realizing how lucky she was to be alive, and her thoughts drifted to Kyle. He had left so abruptly, returning to the tower, and her heart quickened as she knew he was heading into danger. What if she never saw him again? She did not completely understand her feelings for him, or why she cared so much. And that all made her feel out of control—and she did not like feeling out of control.
Kyra rode and rode, heading invariably south, until finally, as the sun grew long, she came upon a massive fork in the forest trail. A crude wooden sign pointed two ways, one to the west, toward the coast, in the direction, she knew, of the Sorrow, of the Lost Temple. And the other pointed east, with a sign that read ANDROS.
Her heart skipped a beat. Andros. She immediately thought of her father, of his being held captive. Kyra sat there, atop Andor, breathing hard, staring at the sign. It was like staring at her destiny. She wanted to go to both places at once.
But she knew she could not. She could only choose one fork, one place. And whichever route she chose, she knew, would have consequences for the rest of her life. She knew what she was supposed to do: she should follow Alva’s orders and fork west, toward the temple, toward her mother. She had to find the source of her power, become a greater warrior, and survive for the sake of her father. And she had to find the clues that led her closer to her mother, to herself.
Yet, try as she did, Kyra had always led with her heart, not her mind. And as she sat there, atop Andor, breathing hard, her heart told her she could never leave her father rotting in prison. Not now, not ever. If he wasn’t dead already, surely he would soon be executed. And if she turned away from him, his blood would be on her hands. That just wasn’t who she was.
So, despite the sense of foreboding brewing within her, Kyra turned Andor east, away from the coastline, away from the Temple—and for Andros. Even as she was doing it, Kyra knew it was foolhardy. She knew she could not take on the Pandesian army, guarding Andros, by herself. She knew her father might already be dead. And she knew she was turning her back on her mother, her destiny, her mission.
Yet she had no choice. The wind in her hair, she already rode, charging toward Andros, toward her father.
“Father,” she said, “wait for me.”